After
by RhondaStar
Summary: Jaime and Brienne immediately after the Battle of Winterfell - confessions and explorations during their first night together.
1. Chapter 1

**After**

_Didn't plan on writing these two, but this came to me yesterday and wouldn't leave me alone_

* * *

It has been this way for some time now. Whenever there is peril, whenever she feels displaced or when threat is imminent. The dream returns. Sapphire waters. Sapphire skies.

There is the blur of a memory; a touch to her arm and in that second she realised it was over. Jaime was still by her side and the moving swamp of death that had clawed relentlessly at them for hours is still.

"Injured?" He breathes by her ear and she shakes her head, though her leg pounds in pain; she will inspect it later. For now, they scramble over corpses searching for movement, breath, signs of life, and bodies still living are carried indoors. She is weak and trembling with exhaustion and shock, but she carries men to the great hall and lays them down to be treated.

She dare not stop to reflect on the fact she is alive. Nor that her first thought was that he was too. And where did life go now? For she had fully expected this to be the end for the both of them.

Who did he serve now?

Whilst the women attend the injured, the soldiers retreat to the heart of the castle. She remembers finding water, of rinsing blood and gore from her face and hair and hands. And somehow she is guided forward by the movement of others, into the halls that still stand, that remained strong, and there is a fire being built and candles lit and they slump in silence and shock. She is by a wall, eyes wide, adamant she will never be able to sleep again.

A goblet is pushed into her hand, though she doesn't see the face of the person that gave it to her, but she drinks deeply partly for her parched throat, partly to numb the racing heart, her adrenaline still coursing through her veins.

She does not remember her mother. But sometimes she thinks it would be nice to have a memory of being rocked to sleep, lulled to sleep, and then she could retreat there now and hide in it. Bury herself in the warmth of it. She has few memories which offer such comfort.

She doesn't even recall falling asleep; utter exhaustion drives it into her even when codes of honour compel her to sit watch the fire. But her mind slipped away and the cradling arms of the dream return to sway her.

The dream of blue.

The depths of blue.

Her haven since childhood; the water is warm in the lagoon, naturally so, and as always she is naked as she swims. There is no need to hide herself away, nobody follows, no guards, no onlookers. She finds freedom here. The rhythm of the water lulls and she rests at the edge, leaning back and allowing it to rock her body, her long lean legs floating out in front of her, the lap of water by her ears, the scent of it so familiar. The sun is on her face, deliciously so, and she feels clean and healthy.

Energised she dives forward, into the spot where the sun spills over the surface in a flower of light, she turns beneath the water, a sea of green and blue gemstones seem to surround her as the water sparkles. When she was young, she would dive from the rocks and into the water, fearless. She wondered sometimes if she would make a mistake one day, misjudge it, break an arm or a rib, injure herself beyond returning home. She figured it wouldn't matter, if she died floating in the warm seas of her home land then it was fitting and right.

Moving to the shallows she can stand, she takes a handful of sand crystals and bathes them along her arms, rubbing the grains in and washing away the invisible stains. She has battled and is tired and scarred. She thinks, for a moment, that she can smell the rot of flesh, but no, the sea replaces it. It is saltwater she can taste in her mouth, not sweat.

Her hands continue their movement, over her neck, her chest, the small buds of her breasts, until she feels she has been enwrapped in the sand and cleaned by its rough texture.

Leaning back, her eyes flutter closed, and she focuses in on the sounds of the isle, and once again thanks the Gods she was born and raised amongst such beauty. She thinks she will always come back here, no matter where honour takes her, she will come back.

She would like to bring Jaime.

Jaime. His name comes to her now even when she isn't thinking of him. Like some worm that's burrowed into her brain and which she can't remove. Her heart flutters and the water moves around her. She opens her eyes, blinking into the sun, wiping a damp hand through her thick jut of hair she sweeps it back from her face and pictures her freckles browning as the sun worships her pale skin.

There have been countless hours wasted wishing she was prettier, or even just a little less different, if she had something of the women of Westeros. But dreams don't allow for such concerns, and here, in this place, she is as beautiful as the cove in which she swims.

Before her there is a shadow in the depths; instinct tells her to move, to reach for the dagger she has laid carefully on the edge amongst her tunic. Something deeper compels her to stay.

The shadow moves fluid, as if it's another lap of a wave, another vibration in the water, and she finds herself slipping back, relaxing, in time with the shadow darkening, forming shape and breaking the water.

When she met him his hair was blonde, sand, now he is darker, greyer, but his beard has gone and he looks younger again. Perhaps it is the sun.

"I must thank you, Lady Brienne, for bringing me here."

"I have never shared this spot with anyone."

"Then I am truly, doubly blessed."

He pauses in his swim, twists his body and stands, she thinks of the pads of his feet brushing the rough floor. It amuses her that he is naked, but she is not uncomfortable at the fact; there is a feeling she has seen him this way a hundred times before, and he her. He is moving towards her with that smile he has, a kind of twisted knowledgeable smile; a cocky little runt is what her father would have said. But his eyes shine sapphire like the water and her stomach has twisted in the most delicious way as she anticipates his touch. She is warm between her legs, aching, and he moves between her thighs as smoothly as silk.

His hands press into the rock by the side of her head, his chest presses against hers, and she finds her arms entwining around his back as if it's the most natural thing in the world. As if she has done this all before.

Part of her must know this is a dream.

They fit together. And as he gazes so warmly at her she wonders again how this came to be – she has never had a man before. She has never known love. Nor passion. But here they are making love in the waters of her home with the sun on their bodies.

His hand is in her hair and he kisses her forehead, down her nose, and she hums something like a smile as he enters her body and then she jolts –

– She is breathless when she wakes. Mouth open, sweat on her body, she can feel it moving down her chest and between her breasts. She can smell it on herself. For a second she had forgotten where she was, forgotten herself, the room seemed to swim in green and blue, and the fire was so warm. She is still in her armour and her neck aches having fallen asleep in such a position.

Her ears seem to ring, and her brain struggles for a minute or two to make sense of sizes, shapes, places, memories: it is all so tangled now, on this, the longest of all nights. What she wouldn't give for a bed.

Beside her there is movement, Podrick's body gives up and slumps to the floor, exhausted, and she watches as he curls into a ball and sleeps. He has defended himself well and she is proud; she can admit that now, the chink of feeling she lets in.

When she looks up from her squire, his eyes meet hers, intense as they drill into her soul, and she remembers the dream and the heat of his body between her thighs and it makes her feel tangled up all over again. Her body has never betrayed her before.

"I didn't plan on being alive," he whispers.

"Well, I am glad you are," she whispers back. There are men asleep around them, and the stench of blood, mud and sweat has risen to a kind of dank mist.

"You were dreaming?"

She worries she gave herself away; perhaps a sound, a moan.

"Of my home," she admits, "Of the waters back home."

He stares at her for the longest time, so much so, she wishes he would speak, say something rude and dismissive to break this spell. But he doesn't. She wonders momentarily if he somehow developed the skill to read minds and then berates herself for such thoughts; he is only a man after all, and she has never lost herself over men before.

When he rises his eyes are still on hers, and he stands and waits. She is unsure why she stands too, and is even more surprised that she follows him, but she does, despite being unsure of where they are going.


	2. Chapter 2

_Not how it goes down on the show but hey that's what fanfic is for!_

* * *

Theirs is a long walk.

And one taken in silence for the most part. But she is obstinate by nature, born of years of being the joke, and her nerves make her snappy.

"Where are we going, exactly?"

"I don't know about you but I don't intend to sleep on that floor."

"So, you're going to sleep? Then what am I doing here? You might not be content to slum it but I am perfectly happy –,"

"Brienne," he is facing her, he stopped so suddenly she is too close to him and feels clumsy. "I don't want to be alone."

His admission makes her knees weak.

"Let's talk, or if not, just rest, but not alone."

If she had more resolve she'd put up a defence, but after nights such as this when death was want to take them a thousand times over and they survived, human contact is needed. And who is she trying to fool; his contact is needed.

"My room is this way," she says, jerking her chin. His eyes widen, amused, "Well, you're practically in a cell."

* * *

"You must always keep a fire," she busies herself with it, behind her she is aware of his movement and it makes her feel oddly prickly. He is in her room, overlooking the few things she has set out. She is not a woman of tokens and baubles and the room is sparse. One could learn little about her from it. But still, he is in it, and that feels so very intimate.

Her armour irritates her. Ungainly as it seems at this time, a tinny sound as she moves. She slips her belt loose, sets it down on the table. Rests her hand upon her sword.

"You fought bravely," he states, watching her from across the room.

"As did you, my Lord." There's a look in his eyes and she edits herself quickly, "Jaime." She holds out a hand, "Won't you sit?"

"I don't suppose you have anything to drink?"

"You suppose correctly."

"Never mind, it'd probably drive me to sleep."

The sound of his breast plate hitting the floor startles her, he makes no moves to shift it and that irritates her. And yet, he is so very much the masculine she can't help admire the fact he can move through life with so little worry about perceptions of him. She knows he isn't completely brick-built; he has confessed enough to her over the years, but his standing is one that she cannot match.

"Don't just leave that there."

"It's heavy and I'm tired."

"You're bloody –,"

"Go on, do finish."

"Bloody bloody." She splutters and he irritates her further by laughing.

The castle walls are thick and grey, the flagstones cold; she has been grateful for this room in the depths of winter, for the thick pelts upon the bed, for the ones that lay by the fire. Upon first arrival she was flattered to be given such a chamber, there are times she forgets her birth.

"Would you mind awfully if I…?" he asks, and she looks to where he is lifting his boot.

"No, of course not."

If his feet are anything like hers they are damp and cold; she busies herself lighting the candles, half-burned in the sconces around the room, to distract from his movements, but she notes he wears two pairs of socks, as she does, and his toes are white and clammy from hours in the damp earth.

"These boots need cleaning," he comments, more for something to say to fill the gap. Now he thinks that drink would help. Now that he is here, he is uncertain as to how to continue.

She feels dirty from the battle, and that fact has never bothered her before. It shouldn't matter, he is dirty too, his body beaten and bruised too; she wonders if he feels it more at his age, and fighting with one hand. At times she wishes she could have seen him in battle at his peak, but perhaps this is why they fit together now, he is broken too.

Is that the reason he is here, that they are both damaged and she'll do in turbulent times? The thought chases her, but she counters it with the realisation that even one-handed, women seem drawn to him, he could have any he wanted, countless.

And yet, he is in her room.

There is the crackle of flame, and she is glad of the fire coming to life. They have spent far too long in the ice and snow. Winter has lasted an eternity.

She stands awkwardly, warming her hands.

"You need to relax," he says, "I can attest to the fact that my back is fucked. I need to rest." He collapses into a chair. "You're sure there's nothing to drink?"

Her eyebrows rise, "No," but she gives in and removes her armour, hanging it carefully. It needs cleaning, polishing.

"Who was rooming next door?" He jerks his thumb.

"You can't go… Jaime…"

But he's already on his feet and heading back into the dark corridor; she hears him tap against the door and shakes her head in dismay.

She takes the opportunity to remove her boots, setting them aside beneath a chair, rolling her socks. With the weight of her armour gone she feels looser, almost disorientated. Though that's probably lack of sleep for the last two days.

"Got some," he closes the door behind him.

"Where did you…?"

"Room other end of the passage. Nobody home."

"Jaime… that could be, they could be a casualty."

"Well," he uncorked it, "in that case they won't miss it, nor mind us celebrating our survival. Sleep won't come anyway, not after something such as this. We battled the fucking dead."

"It hadn't slipped my mind," she rubs at her leg, it feels heavy, dragging as she moves to the chair by the fire.

"You're in pain?"

"It's nothing, got caught in the crush."

"Drink, it'll help… with a lot of things."

She locks eyes with him, brow furrowed, searching for meaning behind his words. She often thinks life would be much simpler if people just came out and said what they really thought.

She takes the goblet regardless, "Not too much."

"Gods know what it is."

She sniffs at it, "It smells of cinnamon."

"Kinda sweet too," he gasps, "Oh there's the burn." He momentarily closes his eyes and shakes his head, "That is some potent stuff."

He pulls his chair to the other side of the fire, slumping down. Oddly, she watches his toes as they flex into the thick pelt that lays in front of the fire, and thinks it odd how she has seen more of him than any man. In the bath she held his body, cradled it, she has dressed him, cleaned him, cared for him when he was so ill after he lost his hand he almost died in the saddle.

If he is surprised by the removal of her armour he doesn't say, he merely stretches out his legs and rests his eyes upon her. Somehow, he always thinks she seems exposed in soft clothes, a billowing shirt, trousers, but he can see her body, could trace the shape of it in the air should anybody ask him to. She is human beneath the armour. Woman. Her boots are off and he takes it as a good sign.

"Tell me something," he says, "Do you still think of me as Kingslayer?"

Her lips purse, "Do you still think of me as wench?"

"Not for a long time."

She nods. Grateful. Caught up in the half smile on his lips.

"So, do you?" He asks again.

She opens her mouth, breathes deeply, "Not for a long time."

He smiles fully at that. She is too smart for him at times, she is altogether too much, someone he hadn't expected. In his most drunken moments he would never have conjured a woman like her; when they met he would never have dreamt she would occupy such a place in his… Oh, but if he admits that it opens up a world of trouble.

He moves his legs, his toes catching hers and the fire is in her belly. She pulls her foot back and then wishes she hadn't, but then she knows nothing of how to do this, how to make things like this happen. She has never had to flirt, or catch a man's eye, it was never important.

His eyes are still on her and he seems amused by the touch, making no moves to separate himself from her.

The water is closing in. She closes her eyes and can hear the sound of waves.

"Tell me about your dream." She hears him take another drink and does the same, listening as he adds more to her cup. She will definitely sleep soon, there's something intoxicating in her brain. "Of your sapphire island."

It's a rarity for her to open up to people, he is one of the few. "I dream it often."

"You do?"

A slight nod, though they are both too weary to sit straight, their bodies melting, the warmth of the fire by their bare feet.

"I dream of the water there, of swimming it."

"That's a good dream."

"I think it's common, to dream of home, isn't it?"

"I never do."

She turned to him sharply then, "Do you not miss it?"

"Casterly Rock never held much charm for me. Or maybe I just don't form allegiances to places."

"I don't believe that, you were always eager to get back to King's Landing."

He purses his lips, rolls his eyes and she moves on quickly.

"I think I dream of it because I miss it, when all of this is over I will go back. To what I'm not sure."

"What will life be after all this?" He breathes deeply, she can just make out the rise of his chest, the movement of his tongue in his mouth. "I don't have anything to go back to."

She does not wish to speak Cersei's name, nor think of what he must have broken for him to have come to Winterfell.

He pauses for a long time and she wonders if she should speak, she's never been good with small talk, arguing with him is easier.

"I came here for you," he finally says. "I fought beside you, not just for the north, not because of a promise. For you."

There's a tidal wave and she is knocked from her feet.

"Brienne?"

"I heard," she says, her voice feels small.

"No smart reply?"

"Not this time."


	3. Chapter 3

_This is SO not how it went down on the show, but then to really explore all of their feelings they'd need the complete hour._

* * *

The room crackles with orange light. She thinks it can't be long until dawn now, and yet she doesn't want the sun to come. Not yet.

Is it wrong of her to feel joy in this moment? To settle herself in the comfort that is him in that room with her by the light of the fire; she has his attention completely, and they are still and silent. There is a lull in the conversation but it does not matter, they have shared silences before and this too holds a joy of sorts.

She feels heady, overwhelmed by the onslaught of emotions this night has brought. She knows maidens fall in times of war, things happen which are later regretted, and he might wake tomorrow and regret being this close to her. In the cold light of a winter day she will be just another plain woman and he a prince of the realm.

A Lannister.

How bitter it is.

From the moment they met, she knew where his allegiance lay, she knew of his reputation, he disgusted her because of it. And now, now she is sitting across from a man who has changed before her, who she has dug down inside and explored. He is changed, or maybe he just never was the man he played. Because it's all a game really. She has seen Cersei, has spoken with her, she knows the woman's spite from a few exchanged words – but she is stunning, she is a Queen, and she is what he has known his life through. How could she, Brienne the Beautiful, ever hope to chip her way through…?

Oh how bitter that is, to have him so close and yet know he will never be hers. She can never be more to him than friend, loyal friend, good friend, but friend nevertheless. How she wished her heart would accept that fact.

"You've gone quiet," he says, his voice is heady too, like the thick flames of the fire. "Swimming in your isle again?"

"No, just… just drifting."

"We should sleep."

"I have a bed –," she blurts and he is amused by her reddening cheeks and lowered eyes.

"Do you indeed."

"Piss off, you know what I mean."

He sits forward, and there's something about the way he looks at her, "Tell me, lady Brienne," she's confused by the look – he's never been nervous with her before. "Tormund Giantsbane…?"

"Oh Gods…"

"Not interested? Not even the slightest sniff of it?"

"Please." She took another drink. "I can say this, he doesn't revolt me as he once did."

"High praise indeed."

"And he's loyal to the Starks, brave, I respect that."

He nodded, cradling his goblet near his lips. "A knight does."

She lifts her eyes to his, wide and bright; _she really does have the most beautiful eyes_, he thought again.

"I never thanked you for that."

"There is no need."

"I wish you'd let me –,"

"I'd rather you didn't." He interjected.

"Just when I think I'm beginning to like you I'm reminded of how obstinate you are."

He grinned, "You _might_ like me?"

"Cocky bastard."

He laughed, this interplay was worth everything, like having a woman as your best friend. "More than Tormund…?"

There was a pause there and the laughter stopped; he felt his throat close and in the place of the banter was a rather sickening anxiety which he was not at all used to. His stomach tight, awaiting her response.

She took her time, turning it over in her mind, figuring out exactly what he was asking, where this was going.

"Are you jealous?"

He sat back, his chair creaking. "Do I sound it? I do rather I suppose."

"You really have no need," she exclaimed, "I have no interest whatsoever in pursuing anything there. Believe me."

"Good…" he said the word so lightly she could have missed it but for the fact he was staring at her as he said it.

There is a heat between them she can't escape nor wants to. She craves it. These are unfamiliar feelings. A hard knot in her belly, an aching so deep she thinks it will never be cured. She focuses on the sound of his breath, of theirs in time together, of the slightest movement of limbs. She has never ached for something more, longing for his touch. For the flex of his fingers upon her, she thinks her skin will burn and peel from her if it happens.

Is this what love feels like? Drowning in warm seas? She has never allowed herself to think the word before, _love_, never let it take up space in her mind. But what if this is how it feels? To lose oneself completely.

The realisation is raw and painful, sweeping in and seizing her heart like a blade; and then there is the sweetness of acceptance. A filling in of the hole in her chest. This is love. She is in love. Had she ever dared to admit it before?

For his part there is confusion. He wishes there were a switch, a door he could close on the past, on all the tumultuous things which have happened, are happening. He knows within a week plans will be made to storm King's Landing, that Cersei will either kill or be killed. That she told him she was pregnant with his child. And yet…

And yet, if life was good he would close himself off in this room and explore all there was to explore with Brienne. A hope. A light. Something so good, someone so pure, it could wash away all of his wrongs.

He had told Bran he was a changed man, and he was, she had changed him – he had admitted that to himself long since. And he knew Cersei knew it too, she could taste it in his kisses.

How the heart aches.

There was a darkness in his mind and he folded it away. Kept his eyes on the shining blue ones facing him now, the slightly parted lips, the expectation all around them.

"What _would_ you say, if I was… if I admitted the slightest hint of jealousy?"

She licked her lips, tried to find humour in the question. "That you're teasing me and I'm not sure I deserve it tonight."

"And if I wasn't?"

Had he moved closer? Had his chair moved, his body, his stance?

"I would say…" she felt her heart pounding, a strange uncontained heat travelling the length of her body. "…Don't do this to me. It isn't fair."

"I'm not mocking you."

"That's not what I meant."

He nodded his head, he did understand, _don't hurt her, don't use her_, that's what she was saying.

"You mean far too much to me." He put his goblet on the floor, lifted a hand to rest atop of hers.

"Why are you saying these things?"

"You're trembling."

"Don't avoid the question."

He licked his lips, "You know why. We both do, for a long time now I feel."

"You shunned me… last time we met…" her mind is racing. Oh god, this can't be now, she isn't prepared. "This isn't… this can't be some mercy fuck. I'm not a sympathy case."

His mouth twisted into a smile, "Never would be. But I appreciate your candour."

She blushed, it wasn't often it happened. "I didn't mean to be abrupt."

"I like it, I like how real it is."

"What do you want from me…?" she asked gently, as he took her goblet from her hands and set it down beside his.

"Nothing you don't want to give. This is your choice, Brienne."

She watched as he turned their hands over, felt his fingers slide through hers and pulled them back, standing quickly.

His shoulders slumped, rejection was never going to be easy and he'd made a total cock of himself now. They were the chances you took. He had never had to do this before; with Cersei it was just there. Maybe he'd gone about it in the wrong way, struck the wrong chord.

He stood reluctantly, ready to bow out.

"My apologies, my lady, if I went too far."

Before her he suddenly seems so human, like a boy, nervous and expectant.

She has a choice, a moment of decision between standing on the side lines or diving into the depths.

Her hands feel clumsy, her leg aches, she can taste the memory of the battle and the stench of it but lord help her there is something so desperate about all of this.

"I…" her fingers flex, reaching forward to touch his arm. "I don't know how to –…"

And then he kisses her.

There is urgency, immediate grappling at each other, his hands in her hair, his chest next to hers and she can feel his heart pounding and hear her own blood pulsating in her ears. She doesn't know how to kiss, but this is all so easy, so real.

"Do you want…?" His words are against his lips.

"I want you, only you."

Fierce kisses, as if sealing the commitment, burning it, branding it. There is no taking it back now, the line has been crossed and he wouldn't go back if he could.

They slow in time, settle into it, holding each other there by the fire. Long, slow kisses, an eternity of them. Her tremble has eased, in its place a need she never even knew existed. His mouth, the smell of him, his body in her arms. And he wants her. Clutches at her, holds her, cradles her. Fingers stroking through her hair, the delicate touch of his tongue as he opens her mouth and she moans, murmurs, because some things can't be expressed in words.

There are promises she wants to make, pledges, but there is still doubt – beyond this what does he see? The tangle of desire and self-awareness clash. This voice in her head saying let go and love him.

He is happy to remain there in that place, warm, complete. All those years and now this – his heart beating. Odd how he is scared, he can hardly be called a virgin, but this is new nevertheless, making love is new.

He can't remember who took her shirt off, or his come to that, but he is intoxicated by the sight. The shape of his hand against her breast, the pink of his skin against her creamy silk. He thinks he will never get enough.

Somehow they've moved, and the back of her legs hit the bed and she sits, looking up at him, her hands at the top of his trousers. She has seen him before, has though of it often, but to be in this position – there is power and weakness in equal measure.

"Jaime…?" she questions, as he gazes down at her, and then watches as his fingers stroke along her collarbone, clean from left to right and then back again.

"Perfection," he whispers, his thumb resting in the dip between her collarbones, "fragility under the armour." He gives her a slight smile and she laughs back; she is not used to compliments and though she would shun it as ridicule under normal circumstances she so wants this to be true. To be absolute.

She is not ashamed of her body, and she lays back on the bed, her feet still on the floor, and lets him lean over her, content for now for him to show her the way.

His mouth traces where his fingers just were, then his tongue, tasting and teasing her skin, marking her as his. Her eyes squeeze shut and she thinks there will never be another, whether there is more than just this night or not, there will never be another. How could her heart find space to love again after him?

She is moaning freely now, unburdened by it, and he keeps whispering words she can't decipher, his kisses on her belly, down lower, his hand untying laces and breathing in the scent of her. She will be naked soon and the secrets of the world hers.

"I love you," she gasps into the golden air, and he breathes deeply, sharply.


	4. Chapter 4

_Well, this is not AT ALL how things turned out..._

* * *

The Kingslayer could never be called meek, never shy, introvert, nervous. He has seen more than his fair share of war, the same of love. Has been splattered with both blood and spit in tavern brawls; witnessed his brother in all manner of positions with all manner of whores. Has repeated the moves when he could with his twin in the privacy of locked rooms. His eyes are wide open.

And yet.

There is a bloom in his chest that tells him he has slept all his life. Something that was dead is breathing fire.

Specks of orange-gold light travel over her body, the cream-white of her, the small pink buds of her breasts. Strong arms. Strong thighs. That long beautiful neck where he's focussed his kisses for so long already. As he gazes down at her, with all of what is to come before him, there is the fleeting hint of darkness in the corners of the room, in his mind of shadows, and he shakes it off quickly. He has dreamed of this for too long now, danced around this flirtation with her.

This bond they've formed with no plan to do so, not even a desire to be near her in the beginning. And now a need never to be apart.

He becomes aware of his hand still laying on her stomach, and her hand atop of his. Her eyes are bright sparkling blue and he thinks of the island, her isle, and the blue of its waters as he sailed by.

If she is nervous she does not show it. And yet he feels like a fumbling boy, uncertain of how far to go. Scared that at any second she could change her mind, find him out for the awful man that he is and reject him.

"Jaime…"

Her fingers flex against his and he watches, takes in the shape of her fingers, the emotion in her voice as she says his name; the steeliness in her gaze. Did he really think she would be nervous? She, who has faced down enemies that would make grown men quake.

She already knows who he is, and what he's done, and rejection has never been a concern. She embraces it all. Somebody so inherently good, honourable, loyal, brave; somebody who has experienced such ill treatment from others and yet she only seeks to find the good in him.

"I don't deserve it…" he says softly, and then bends, kisses the back of her hand where it lays upon her stomach. She turns it over, cups his cheek in her palm, strokes the whiskers of his beard, and her fingertips touch his mouth, he kisses the tips, kisses her palm, her wrist and she is smiling when he looks down at her.

He is talking of her love, and in a way she is glad he didn't give her some glib response to her confession. Theirs has never been the way of hearts and flowers.

He leans down, resting on his hand to hold himself just above her, his chest on hers, their stomachs touching. She is glorious, shining in the dark.

"You're sure?" He asks, and he wonders if they drank too much, if she'll regret this later and blame it on the wine. But now he feels stone-cold sober; and yet intoxicated by her.

A curt nod, which is so very her, and then she's caught him off guard, has pushed her mouth up to meet his and is kissing him hungrily. Her tongue is soft and sweet, and he moans into her mouth which surprises them both.

She is inquisitive, always, and her hand travels over his bare back, for a few seconds she debates what she can touch but these things are natural and desire takes over as her fingers, tentative at first, stroke over his backside. She squeezes. His kisses intensify.

For long minutes their bodies melt together; he has never really explored kissing before, not like this, it was always just a preliminary route to the bigger prize. But now it is the way of countless pleasure. Soft murmurs, hums of desire, and mouths and tongues communicating all that needs to be said. He thinks he would worship her forever; she thinks she could do this for the rest of her life, only with him. Just him.

All those torturous months without seeing his face; thinking of him when she lay down to sleep, mentioning him to Podrick for an excuse to say his name. There was a never guarantee she would see him again; they were on opposing sides and both so loyal. But she would dream, and those dreams were hers, locked away inside her mind for nobody else to share in. For surely men would laugh at her if they knew. This bumbling hulk of a woman and her crushes leading to nowhere. She had loved but twice, and both out of her reach.

That he was there now, and seemingly loving her, remained something of a fantasy, an oasis of the mind from which she drank when lonely and hopeless. It couldn't be true.

His fingers caught tight in her hair as his desire intensified and he pressed so hard against her she could feel the entire length of him against her leg. There was a rushing of blood, a pulsing between her thighs, and some deep aching ebb of want and need tangled her up inside. These weren't entirely new sensations, but they were stronger than any she'd felt before.

For a second, trembling in her arms, he felt emotional. And he stopped, cradled her head, his fingertips stroking through her hair as he gazed down at her. "Yours is the sweetest, most untainted love I have ever known." He said.

She opened her mouth to speak, but were no words to that; it was a confession of sorts and she would take it, hold onto it whatever came to pass.

His hand stroked down her face, to the delicate purple along her collarbone. "You shouldn't be bruised," he whispered, and she watched as the firelight danced across his face as he bent to kiss her there. His hair looked golden in the light and she thought him a king.

The first time would hurt, she knew enough to know that, but he was tender and slow as he moved inside her. He waited for her body to adjust to the new sensation, watched her face, read the darkening of her eyes, the biting of her lip and moved gently in rhythm with her hips.

When he moved deeper, his pelvis pressing against hers, he gasped her name and she felt the slightest jolt of power at that – he wanted her, the thought kept returning to her – _he wanted her_. Her back arched, legs lifting and curling around him, and their bodies finding ways to belong together.

In the distance of her mind she could hear the water, the sea calling.

* * *

Euphoria and awkwardness. One she wasn't that familiar with; the other was an old haunt. She had never really considered what her first time might be like, had never got far enough on that path to dwell on the niceties of what happened after when you were lying there red-faced, chest rising in a kind of panicked overwhelmed fashion, or how to get across the room naked without him seeing so she could clean herself. Not that it mattered, he had seen everything, only it seemed different when the initial desire had been quenched.

It was too much to say it had left her weak and giddy, she was no youthful simple-minded fool, and yet something had changed. Something had shifted.

There was knowledge, an understanding of what it meant to give yourself to somebody, and the completeness that came with having him inside her. And she wanted it again, she knew her own mind well enough for that. How would she communicate that? She'd overheard enough whispers and gossip over the years to have an understanding that men usually rolled over and snored after.

But here they were. He was lying on his side, one hand propping up his head as he gazed down at her.

"What did you expect?" He said.

She was wide-eyed, smiled, "That's a very odd question."

"I can be a very odd person."

She laughed at that.

"I've never seen you smile so much as you have tonight – and before you protest, I mean all night, not just here with me."

She forced herself to stop smiling, feeling her mouth pull at the effort. "Things seem out of kilter tonight. I've felt it before following battle, but this seems…"

"I know. Like life has shifted."

"I'm not sure where it goes to now." She admitted.

"South." He stated.

The thought that he would leave soon to either fight alongside a Targaryen or return to be a Lannister tasted bitter. She didn't want to think of either because whichever way he went it meant he would leave the North, and her, behind, and would probably not live to see her again.

She gasped when his hand closed over her breast, closed her eyes momentarily before looking down, watching as his thumb and forefinger stroked and caressed, and then he bent his head forward and kissed the tip of her nipple and she found herself giggling at the sensation.

"That's better," he whispered, "let's not think of what's to come," he rolled her onto her back again, and she more than willingly parted her legs around him. "Let's enjoy being alive."

She lifted her chin, "You're awfully sure of yourself Ser Jaime."

"Believe me, with you, I'm anything but."

That thought excited her, "Oh…?"

He touched her hair, his finger curling into the strands, "Things we don't say, Brienne, things we ignore because it's easier than facing up to our realities."

There was a lump in her throat, "What don't you say?" Her mouth felt dry. "You can say anything to me." She felt like a child when she said that, like a girl as she looked up at him and for the first time she thought he looked older, tired; perhaps it was the remnants of the battle, or thoughts of where he still had to go.

"I have shared more with you than anyone, man or woman, more of my soul."

"Do you regret it, showing weakness?"

He smiled at that and his eyes shone, "I would do it all again."

She stroked her hands up his back, "Perhaps there are some things which don't need to be said at all."

"Indeed. But I have pushed away thoughts of you for far too long in the hope they would disappear."

She was silent at that. But she thought of her own battle to rid him from her thoughts.

"And yet here I am, and quite happy to pledge myself to living out the entirety of my existence in this very room." He teased.

"Oh, and how would we eat?"

"We wouldn't need to." He kissed her deeply.

"And drink?" She asked as his mouth moved to her neck.

"Nor that."

"You're telling me your plan is that we gradually waste away in between doing…this?"

"Yes." His mouth was on her belly and he paused to look up at her. "I think it sounds a wonderful way to go. Now, do be quiet, I have something I want to show you." And he disappeared down the bed.


End file.
